


Significant

by Elvichar



Series: Significant Others [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvichar/pseuds/Elvichar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows something Sherlock doesn't.</p><p>Sherlock isn't always right about things, but then neither is John. The trials and tribulations of two men who really don't know what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clues

“Sherlock?” Something had been intriguing John for a while, ever since a slightly odd conversation he had had with DI Lestrade a few days before.

“What?” Sherlock said, an impatient tone to his voice. He was between cases, having solved four at the weekend, leaving nothing to do for the rest of the week. He needed distraction of some sort, any sort.

“Is Inspector Lestrade married?” John asked purposefully.

“Married? Yes I suppose he is, I have never been interested enough to ask him, but he is married. Recently, though the relationship has been ongoing for some years. He started wearing a wedding ring very recently, doesn't always remember to put it on. And it migrates – not always on the same hand.”

“So you don't know the name of the person he's married to?” John smirked slightly at this.

“We have never met, I don't tend to socialise with the man – he just comes around here unannounced every now and then. I assume she's called Emma or Emily. Something tediously conventional.”

“Oh, he has mentioned a name then?” John started to feel his theory evaporating. It wasn't often he thought he'd worked something out that Sherlock had entirely missed. He was hoping this would be a coup d'etat, but perhaps he had been wrong after all.

“Well, not the whole name, but I have heard him talk about an Em.”

John bit his lip, realising that he had, after all, stumbled on something Sherlock was oblivious about.  
“Really. Oh well that seems conclusive then. No need to explore that matter further... cup of tea?” John prepared the tea and waited almost ten minutes before asking his next question. He sipped some tea, slowly dunked a biscuit and very nonchalantly asked, “Mycroft is married though isn't he?”

“What? Yes, Mycroft is a very private man. I don't think he knows that I know but the clues are all there. I don't think he wants me to know anything about his home life but it's obvious. He went abroad a few months ago and came back looking very smug. I am fairly sure he's married someone Dutch, he had some business at the Hague, probably met her there. The big give away is the ring on his right hand – he thinks I don't realise it's a wedding ring, but Holland, Germany, Spain, so many countries use the right hand for their wedding rings.”

“Oh, so you worked all that out then? Just from his hand.” John smiled and nodded.

“It's obvious. She is no doubt a minor politician of some sort, maybe something in law enforcement. Mycroft always did have a thing about authority,” Sherlock said with a degree of contempt in his voice.

“I suppose her name is Gina, or Giselle is it?”

“Now you come to mention it, yes, it almost certainly is,” Sherlock smiled, “It's great you are taking an interest in the methods, John. It's just a shame you are making me use them on something as tedious as my brother's love life.”

 

John coughed a little at this. “So you've never met his significant other?”

“No, I just said that didn't I?”

“You've never been curious to meet the person your brother presumably intends to spend the rest of his life with?” Sherlock's shrug of indifference at that showed John he really had not. “And you have never met Lestrade's spouse either?”

“Oh are we back to that?” Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Why should I care about any of this?”

John started giggling which caused his flatmate to look at him with a mix of bemusement , confusion and annoyance. “I think Mycroft might have one up on you here Sherlock.”

Sherlock's look of confusion grew.

“You remember when you though Harry was my brother...?” John began. He didn't get any further.

Sherlock leapt to his feet in a sudden moment of clarity. “I can't believe they did this to me!”

John scratched his head and smiled. “I'm not sure I would have put it together, they 're both very secretive people, it's just Lestrade mentioned the other day in passing that he had had a discussion with “Em” about in-laws and how difficult they could be. He was nodding towards you at the time.”

Sherlock did nothing but growl angrily.

“I don't think they did it to annoy you, Sherlock. I get the impression Lestrade thinks you already knew.”

“Mycroft will be receiving a very strongly worded text,” was all Sherlock had to say to that.


	2. Save the Day

“He didn't even know?” Lestrade was not happy. For the past few months he had tried to smooth the ground and be more indulgent towards his new brother-in-law. They had seemingly reached an accord, and although Sherlock still berated Lestrade, frequently, it had seemed that he was making some headway with the relationship.

Sherlock had been allowed free run of police business for years, and he had Mycroft to thank for that, mostly. Even so Lestrade had been incredibly tolerant about Sherlock's involvement.

He had believed that Sherlock's recent, slightly less brittle, interaction with him had had something to do with family feeling, and that maybe Mycroft had had words with him about the way he treated the police.

“I assumed he had guessed,” Mycroft said casually. “It is Sherlock, after all, he usually knows everything. I didn't think making things explicit was necessary.”

“Does he even realise how many procedures have been ignored so he can swish in, stomp over evidence, belittle us all and save the day?”Lestrade had started pacing.

“Well, he does always 'save the day', as you put it, so it's not much of an imposition is it, really?” Mycroft twitched a little. He did so hate conflict.

“Apart from all that he had no idea about us. At all!”

“Well I am not sure what difference it would have made, Sherlock and I have never been especially close. I wouldn't have expected any wedding presents and I very much doubt he would have expressed any warm and squishy declarations of respect for either of us,” Mycroft gave a little moue of disgust at the very thought.

“He's your brother!” Lestrade said with more than a small degree of exasperation.

“Yes, and that's precisely why I have made every effort to ease his passage in the world, to make him happy by allowing to play in the sandbox of police work without getting so involved as to catch any nasty diseases in the process.”

“Is that what you see being a 'real' policeman as – a disease?” Lestrade didn't often lose his temper with Mycroft, he usually preferred to just go along with the man's often Machiavellian schemes, but this was wearing his patience very thin indeed.

“No, of course, that's not what I meant. It's just you can cope with all of this, it's your profession. Sherlock needs to be protected, he's a very delicate child.”

Lestrade sighed. “Ah, Em, you really don't see your brother in the same as everyone else do you?”

“I know my brother doesn't often acknowledge he feels anything but when he does he feels deeply.”

“Well, I suppose that's probably true.” Mycroft was avoiding eye contact now.

“Honestly though , you shouldn't worry so much about Sherlock – especially now he has Doctor Watson looking after him.”

“Yes, that was a ...stroke of luck,” Mycroft grinned.

Lestrade decided to ignore whatever Mycroft was getting at there, it would probably be easier to let it slide. “I just don't understand why we are keeping 'us' a secret,” he said at last.

“Think of our careers!”

“I don't believe that's an issue with you and it certainly isn't with me. Besides, that doesn't begin to explain why you haven't told your own brother. I have been working under a misapprehension for quite a while now, thinking he must be OK with it seeing as he hadn't said anything offensive. You have no idea the sort of things he says to some of my team. I haven't had to deal with it because they are not exactly polite when it comes to Sherlock, and nobody has made any complaints on either side. But he has an acid tongue.”

“Well, quite! It doesn't concern him, you and I. He just thinks of me as the enemy and now you're... sleeping with the enemy, I am afraid he might start to think of you that way too.”

“Oh!” Lestrade said softly. He felt very foolish now. That hadn't even occurred to him.

\---

 

They both had addictive personalities. They had that in common with Sherlock at least.

Before the wedding Mycroft had decided to give up eating as much rich food and Lestrade had agreed to stop smoking. Mycroft was finding it easier, and had started to notice the difference in the way he looked and felt, but Lestrade was just miserable without tobacco. It was going to take longer to get used to life without. He knew though that he wanted to live long enough to grow old with Mycroft. That was the idea. That Mycroft was looking so much better without the added poundage was an added benefit. Some people suited an extra few pounds but Mycroft was not one of them. He didn't have the bone structure for it.

Now Sherlock knew what was going on he was cross with himself for not noticing these very obvious clues.

“Maybe it wasn't as clear as all that, Sherlock,” John said cheerfully. “Yes, Lestrade had given up smoking and maybe it could have been seen as significant, but...”

“It's not something I should have missed, John. People tend to make life altering decisions like going on diets or stopping smoking to please people they are with. That the both of them gave things up at the same time should have been a clear sign. And as for the stopping smoking – it's almost always an indication that someone will be moving in with a non smoker they care about deeply enough to protect. It's all very transparent.”

“Well, not necessarily you gave up smoking about the same time I moved in, so...”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, glancing strangely at John.

John wasn't sure exactly what the look meant but he couldn't help feeling a little tingly. He decided not to think too much about it for the time being.


	3. Dinner and Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is still annoyed he hadn't guessed something before everyone else already knew.

Sherlock was dressed and ready to go, and had been for over an hour. He'd been sitting in the same place looking contemplative, or sullen, since John had left him there to get changed.

John had exasperatedly told him he was ready far too early and he'd get bored by the time it was time to actually leave, but Sherlock had pooh poohed this and told John to hurry. John had responded to this by taking all the time he needed, plus some more.

“I don't see why we have to go, anyway,” Sherlock sulked when John eventually reappeared.

“Well, they invited you...” John started.

“They invited us,” Sherlock interrupted. “Point of fact they invited you separately to me, you're not even my plus one.”

John bit his lip, annoyed at Sherlock, not for the first time, “Well, Sherlock, it's your family, so I assume they want you there.”

“Just because they are my "family" doesn't, and shouldn't, mean a thing. They are just obligated by society's stupid, pointless conventions. They clearly invited you because they like you, and me just because they somehow felt they should. If it's a family thing why did they invite you, and since they did why can't you go on your own?”

“Well, Sherlock, as usual your logic is flawless. Maybe you should just retire from human society altogether and go and breed bees in the country.”

Sherlock smiled from the side of his mouth at John, “Admirable idea, John, I think I will.”

“Good, but before you do that, get up out of my chair, get the bottle of wine from the kitchen, go to your damn brother's dinner party and stop being such an arse.”

Sherlock stood up meekly. “All right, there is no need to press the point, John. I was going to anyway.”

John sighed and wondered again why he bothered.

\---

They still had separate residences. Lestrade had a flat in Southwark and Mycroft was living in the far more salubrious Highgate. Sherlock grumbled all the way. Peckham was too difficult to get to by taxi and almost impossible any other way without resorting to at least two, and possibly three forms of public transport.

“Why South London?” Sherlock almost spat as they paid the taxi driver an extortionate premium for driving south of the river. “It's so difficult to get here.”

John shrugged. “You didn't have a problem leaving me in Brixton, also south of the river with no easy way of getting back to Baker Street.”

“That was different, that was for a case. For a mere social visit, it's a terrible imposition. Also we had only known each other a day, and I needed to see how resourceful you could be. Anyway, it would have only taken 18 minutes by tube.” He rang the bell. “Regardless...” the door was opened by Lestrade, smiling welcomingly. “What was wrong with Mycroft's place?” Sherlock demanded. Lestrade's face fell.

“Hello to you, too, Sherlock,” he said tightly.

“Sorry about Sherlock, he's had a very boring week,” John said cheerfully, handing over the wine.

“No need to apologise for him, he's not really your responsibility now, is he?” Lestrade nodded as he accepted the offering.

“That's not how it feels!” John said ruefully.

“You didn't answer my question,” Sherlock said, petulantly.

Mycroft came out of the kitchen at that moment. “You're here, marvellous,” he smiled at his brother, who smiled quickly and uncovincingly back. It was more the snarl of a shark confronting a dolphin, thought John, although he wasn't entirely sure which of the brothers was which.

“Mycroft, Sherlock wants to know why not your place,” Lestrade's eyebrow was raised quizzically.

“Oh, not this again!” Mycroft said, almost sweetly if you weren't paying attention to the underlying sentiments.

“Well, one of us has to make a compromise eventually,” Lestrade muttered. “So, coats on the coat stand, dinner should be ready soon, can I get either of you gentlemen a drink?” Lestrade turned quickly to host mode, cutting off anything Mycroft might have replied.

“So, you cook?” John said to Mycroft, trying hard to keep the incredulity out of his tone. “The only thing your brother cooks is the occasional eyeball when he's forgotten about an experiment!”

Sherlock scowled at that, but said nothing, simply flopping down on an armchair and taking no time to settle himself there as though he owned it.

“It's not very big, your flat,” Sherlock complained. “Mycroft's house is better. Am I not important enough to be entertained in style?”

“Yes, John, I cook,” Mycroft said. It looked as though everyone was going to just ignore Sherlock's bad manners this evening.


	4. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't like to miss things, but is that the real reason he's so annoyed?

“Will the other guests be arriving soon?” John said as he took the wine.

“Other guests?” Lestrade looked a bit confused. “It's just the four of us.”

“Oh, fair enough,” said John, unfazed. “Probably a good job I didn't invite Sarah then. Thought it was more of a party thing”

“Well, it's a party of sorts,” Mycroft said.

“Just a very small one,” John replied cheerfully.

“Sarah... your boss at the surgery, isn't she?” Lestrade said, settling into an armchair.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. I pop in and out and she's not really my boss, just the main doctor there.” John took another swig of wine, draining the glass. “It's not bad for what I paid,” he announced.

“My brother has a wine cellar,” Sherlock said sulkily, “You could have had something much better if we had gone to his house.”

"I can open another bottle, I think I bought quite a good one a while back, probably still have it," Lestrade said apologetically. He got up to get the bottle from the kitchen.

“Oh do be quiet, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly but with the unmistakable hint of a threat. He turned to John. “So, still seeing Sarah, still sleeping on her sofa.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That was very alliterative,” John feinted. As it wasn't a question he saw no reason to provide any confirmation or denial.

“Sibilant. Like a snake,” Sherlock said, smiling briefly, or at least baring his teeth.

Lestrade, standing at the door with the new bottle,looked around awkwardly, a little out of his depth. His solution to the tension was, “So, shall we move through to the dining area ready to eat?”

“Yes, let's,” Mycroft said tightly.

The dining area was more the corner of the kitchen. Lestrade had moved to the flat after the break up of his first marriage and a very messy divorce, just over seven years before. It wasn't his first choice but it wasn't too long a commute to Scotland Yard and he had grown to like the area. The flat itself was not so great.

It didn't even have the faux Victorian charm of John and Sherlock's place, but he had done his best trying to make it inhabitable. It was still a little embarrassing having to entertain here though.

Mycroft was standing by the hob, stirring something in a pot. “I hope you like goulash,” he said.

“Possibly,” John said.

“It's a simple dish but it tastes very much better than it looks,” Mycroft explained.

“That's good, it looks bloody awful,” Sherlock scowled. He flopped down on of the kitchen chairs, hands deep in his pocket.

“Maybe you should take your coat off, Sherlock,” John gave what looked like a smile, but his eyebrows were raised and the way his mouth quirked was more chastening than approving. “We are staying, aren't we?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Sherlock said. “I haven't decided.”

The dinner was served. John looked at the mixture suspiciously. Sherlock had not been wrong, it did look awful. He put a forkful to his mouth, warily. “Oh, this is very good,” he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Mycroft merely nodded in assent.

“So, John, this Sarah, she's more a friend than a colleague?” Lestrade said, passing the bread.

“Yes, I think I am definitely in the 'friend zone' with her now,” John said with a little snort.

“Sofa,” Mycroft said with a signficant glance at Lestrade.

“Oh,” Lestrade said.

“Nice that you consider some people friends anyway,” Sherlock said, slightly disgruntled. “I'm certainly not in the 'friend zone', John keeps correcting it to 'colleague' every time I introduce him as my 'friend'.”

“Yes, but the way you say it people might get the wrong impression,” John countered.

Sherlock's, “tsk,” at this could have meant anything. His follow up of “I'm going to wait in the other room while you eat,” and the dramatic swirl of his coat as he got up and slammed the door behind him, was possibly more meaningful.


	5. A Telling Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's coming up roses. Or not.

“Do you think I should check on him?” John asked Mycroft.

“No, not really. He won't go anywhere – there is little chance of him hailing a cab from here. He'll no doubt stay in the other room until we join him. More goulash?” Mycroft was already serving. It was odd to see him in such a domestic setting but he clearly enjoyed it.

John shook his head at the offer of more of the strange looking concoction. “So when exactly did all this happen?” He waved vaguely between Mycroft and Lestrade. “Recently?”

“Well, the commitment part is recent,” Lestrade said. “But I am still at a loss to work out why Sherlock was so surprised. Apart from anything else I left a message for Sherlock with Dimmock when we went to Holland, didn't he say? And was Sherlock not even a bit curious where I'd gone?”

“Or for that matter where I had gone?” Mycroft added.

“He seemed to know you were at The Hague,” John told Mycroft. “I'm sorry, this was during the time we were dealing with all that Blind Banker business?”

“Oh, yeah, I read Dimmock's report. And your blog. Why did you call it that again?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, well, the picture in the bank had a sort of yellow paint blindfold over... yeah it was a bit tenuous. I struggle with titles for my blog entries,” John said apologetically. “Still, it was then? Oh that explains.... something, anyway. Listen, I think I should check on Sherlock. He gets bored very easily, there's no telling what he's doing in there.” John wiped his mouth with a napkin and moved to the other room before Lestrade or Mycroft could protest.

Sherlock did not appear to be doing anything much, He was just hunched up on a chair, hugging his knees and looking sulkily into space. He looked up as John came through the door

“Can we go now?” Sherlock sighed.

“Well, I would like to see what's for pudding first, and it would be a little bit more polite of you to talk to your brother and new brother-in-law, at least for a while longer, don't you think?”

“Polite? When have I ever been polite?”

“You could start,” John said through slightly gritted teeth.

“Are you angry?” Sherlock said, surprised. “Why? Have I done something to upset you?”

John rubbed his temple. “Please just come into the other room and try to act like a normal person for once. I know you don't usually do 'normal person', Sherlock, but I am fairly sure you can do a convincing impression if you put your mind to it.”

“Why, yes, I can,” Sherlock smiled. He rose up and strode back into the kitchen towards Lestrade, proffering outstretched arms and catching the slightly stunned Detective Inspector in a friendly hug. “Welcome to the family,” he beamed.

John stood at the door watching this spectacle with a small degree of amazement. He might have known Sherlock would lay it on a bit too thickly. Still, it was a start.

\---

The rest of the evening seemed to go well. There was a slight tension when John asked Lestrade what the “G” in his name stood for - Lestrade waved away the question so nobody was any the wiser- apart from that Sherlock had continued to be the picture of civility and decorum.

“Thanks for that,” John said, meaning it sincerely, as they stepped through the door back at the flat. “It could have ended up very awkward indeed.”

“You realise I was only being 'polite' because you asked me to?” Sherlock said.

“Oh, well, I am flattered then!” John said, amused.

“Yes. You should be,” Sherlock looked at John, holding the gaze for a little too long. John looked up, as he was forced to, given the height difference, and swallowed. He was about to try and reply, though he really wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock's comment, but the tension was suddenly broken for him by Sherlock saying, “Well, goodnight then,” as he swiftly turned his back on John and swooped away to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

John stood in the middle of the room, not going left, not going right. The only thing he could think was “Wha...whu?” He shook his head. Something strange was going on. Perhaps he should use Sherlock's methods of deduction to work it out.

He decided to leave it until morning and in the meantime have a cup of tea.


	6. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the opera. Different people have very different interpretations of what constitutes a "date". UST, guest appearance from unnamed character

The next morning John got up early. He hadn't really slept until gone 4am, and even then he had had some disquieting dreams.

He was a little surprised to find Sherlock up already, with breakfast waiting. John had noticed when he was not on a case he tended to lock himself in his room and not come out until mid afternoon.

“Hello,” Sherlock said cheerfully as John came into the kitchen. He was sitting at the cleared table reading that day's newspaper, which meant he must have gone outside to get it as they never bothered having one delivered.

John looked at him warily and sat down. “Morning,” he said. “Is something up?”

Sherlock folded the paper and slowly leaned forward, resting on the table with his hands steepled under his chin. “Would you like to accompany me to the opera tonight?” He said eventually.

“Opera? Is this going to be like the Chinese circus débâcle? Are we chasing some sort of criminal mastermind?”

Sherlock pouted. “No. It's just opera. You must like opera, everyone likes opera.”

“Really? Everyone? Well I must have missed that memo,” John replied. “Why would I want to go to the opera?”

Sherlock's brow creased and he leaned back, moodily. “I just thought it would be something to do. And Mycroft has season tickets, he's letting me use them. It's hardly ever staged, so it might be a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

John sighed deeply. “Well, okay, I suppose I could do with some cultural broadening. And there's nothing on the telly tonight.” He was rewarded by Sherlock ceasing to pout. John wasn't sure he could really sit still for four and a half hours of pained warbling from some elderly fat lady dressed in a helmet, but he didn't really have any good excuses to avoid it. And in a funny way it was good to see Sherlock so enthusiastic about something – certainly better than having to cope with another long sulk.

\---

The first half had been less painful than John had expected, and the expected elderly fat lady turned out to be a fairly attractive young woman with a passable voice. It didn't make John's ears ring, so that was always a plus.

Neither Sherlock nor John had bought a programme so her name was a mystery to John. Sherlock had seemed to know the opera and there were moments when John looked over to him that he seemed transported. The music or the performance, or perhaps the performers were really affecting him.

“That woman was all right,” John said in passing as they waited during the interval. It had been a very long first half so he was glad to get out of the auditorium for a few minutes.

“Which woman?”

“The other one, the woman who wasn't a soprano. The pretty one. The one dressed up like a man.” John wasn't at all familiar with the opera, it seemed to be vaguely Scottish in some way (even though it was in Italian) and there was something a bit titillating about the pretty woman dressed as a man trying to get off with the soprano. Sherlock had seemed to respond to her particularly during the first half. "She was lovely wasn't she."

“Oh, really, I hadn't noticed, “Sherlock said dismissively. “Would you like a glass of wine or something?”

He wasn't fooled by Sherlock's obfuscation. “Maybe you should get a signed photograph,” John said, amused. “At least then we'd know what she was called.” He had no doubt Sherlock knew already. He was clearly a fan even if he wasn't admitting it.

The rest of the opera was more of the same. John kept glancing over to Sherlock who seemed transfixed on the stage. There was certainly something endearing about his obvious fan worship. It wasn't something John would have ever expected of him.

When the lovers got together at the end Sherlock looked over to John, who was still looking at Sherlock, and smiled. John looked away quickly after that, a little embarrassed at the realisation that Sherlock had probably known all through the second half that John had been staring at him, not the stage, for most of it. He hadn't even been consciously aware himself.

“So, are you going to get that signed picture?” John asked as they left the theatre.

“I'm sure I'll get one at some point. It might be an interesting souvenir,” Sherlock said. He didn't say of what.

"So we're definitely not here for a case? You didn't find some important clues or anything that you're not telling me about?"

Sherlock merely turned to John, smiling inscrutably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The opera is La donna del lago by Rossini. The role of Malcolm, the Lady of the Lake's love interest, is played by a contralto (ie a woman). People familiar with ACD canon can make their own conclusions as to the identity of the girl in boy drag. It won't really make a difference to the rest of the story. The woman will not be mentioned again!


	7. Don't Wait Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had all seemed to be going so well.

He slept well for once, with a lack of the usual nightmares – so it was frustrating and perplexing when John eventually awoke to find Sherlock sat staring into the empty fireplace, arms slack and head downcast. Yesterday had been great, even the opera was tolerable, it didn't make any sense.

Sherlock stayed like that most of the morning, barely acknowledging it when John asked him a question.

“I'm going to the surgery to see if they need me,” John said eventually. He knew they didn't but he couldn't stand the tension any longer.

Once there he busied himself by checking the internet. Sherlock seemed to have roused himself a little as he was online and answering questions on his website by mid afternoon.

John's attention was caught by Sherlock's dismissal of a case in Belarus, so he wrote in the thread telling Sherlock he really should go.

If nothing else he would have something to talk to Sherlock about when he got back to the flat.

Except by the time he got home Sherlock had already gone – he hadn't even left a note.

The text, sent from the airport at 11.25pm simply said:

Gone to Minsk. Don't wait up. SH

Without him.

–

“My husband used to do that sort of thing, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, patting him on the hand. “Of course he did some very awful things every time he disappeared. Maybe that's not the best example."

“I'm so confused,” John muttered as he left her flat.

–

Outside, the street was quiet. As it always was - it was off the tourist trail and there were no museums or interesting sights to see, so most of the traffic and footfall stayed on the main road. It meant Speedy's never got any custom, but it was great as a residential area.

There was a large black car parked opposite, with a familiar figure standing on the pavement behind.

He crossed the road as John left the building.

“Are you in need of a little moral support, John?” Mycroft said, almost sympathetically.

“I take it you know that Sherlock's left the country,” John sighed.

"Naturally."

“I'll be fine. I should go to the supermarket. I need to pick up some stuff. And it will be great to have the flat to myself for a few days. Get some breathing space. No getting shot at for a bit.”

“Quite. Even so, you are welcome to spend a few days in the country with us."

“What?” John said, bemused. “Why would you invite me?” It was odd enough that he had gone to the dinner party with Sherlock, but to be invited to the country without Sherlock was just peculiar.

“I worry,” Mycroft looked down, with a look of concern.

“About me?” John said “Why would you care what happens to me?”

“My dear John, your well being and my brother's are inextricably linked, surely you realise that by now. He's dreadfully unhappy, and I can see so are you. I need to be certain this isn't all going to end in disaster.”

“All what's going to end in disaster?” John shook his head. The whole family was mad. Sherlock had abandoned him and here was his brother trying to take him on holiday to make up for it. “Let me get this straight – you want me to go away with you for a weekend in the country?”

“G will be there, obviously. I don't have any ulterior motives.”

Somehow this didn't particularly ease John suspicions.

–

“I tried,” Mycroft told Lestrade later.

“I think Doctor Watson might be better off on his own for a little while anyway. Maybe it'll give him time to mull things over,” Lestrade said. “He's clearly dealing with some issues.”


	8. Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Sherlock's motivation. His methods of deduction don't seem to work as well when he tries applying them to the events in his own life. See previous parts for more summary.

He was going to see Sarah this evening. That would be best. Lovely normal Sarah with her perfectly ordinary life and sensible priorities.

Maybe they could make another go of it, perhaps it wasn't a completely lost cause. He could marry her and go and live in Shropshire or Devon, perhaps have some kids and a dog and settle down and completely avoid any sort of stress and unpredictability.

Yes. Calm. Reality. Not this bizarro world he was inhabiting with Sherlock.

He spent all day at the surgery, and returned to find Sherlock back from Minsk and shooting up. The walls at least rather than anything Lestrade was likely to raid them for. Though saying that, John's gun was a piece of vital evidence in an as yet unsolved case, so it was hardly safer.

And a head in the fridge.

Sherlock was being even more peculiar than before he'd flown to Belarus. Not to mention insulting.

Sarah was looking more appealing than ever.

–

The explosion was a bit of a shock, but at least John hadn't been here. He could have been hurt.

Sherlock had decided the best course of action now would just to be to sit by the fire and let the police forensic team get on with whatever they needed to do while he moped. The last person he wanted to see right now was his brother.

“Can I come in?” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella.

“You're not John Steed, you know," Sherlock tutted. Mycroft feigned an expression of ignorance. “Mrs Hudson, could we have some tea?”

Mrs Hudson, standing behind Mycroft gave a disapproving look and turned to go back downstairs. She had mostly stopped saying she wasn't his housekeeper, because it never seemed to make any difference.

“What do you want?” Sherlock said ungraciously.

“Well, partly I have a case I want you to work on, but mostly I wanted to see how you were.”

“Did Lestrade tell you to check on me?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft did not try to deny it. “Well, it was a very big explosion. Though that's not exactly what I meant.” Mycroft sighed. “He's not sleeping with her you know.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Sherlock replied, nonchalantly, plucking his violin.

“You realise all this moodiness is counter-productive, don't you? It's not creating an air of mystery any more, just a sense of annoyance.”

Sherlock pouted.

“Stop it,” Mycroft warned.

“I don't know what I'm doing wrong!” Sherlock suddenly burst out. “I told him I was married to my work, which any fool would understand.”

“Of course, you wanted to let him know if there was a chance of any intimacy he would have to become one with your work,” Mycroft nodded.

“Exactly. And that seemed to be working. He came running when I asked him to, everything was going so well. I even let him use my credit card. Surely that should have been as much evidence as he needed to see what I was getting at. He stared at me the whole time we were watching La donna del lago. He did. And then we got back to the flat and he went straight to bed.”

“It didn't quite have the aphrodisiac effect you were expecting,” Mycroft said. "Go on."

“I think he thought I was there to see one of the performers. I have been following her career, but that's because she's the best at what she does. She's going to be the next Callas, or at least the next Marilyn Horne, and you know how much I love a good diva.”

“Oh, I do," Mycroft admitted.

“And I know it's not one-sided. He licks his lips every time he looks at me - I mean, really! And now I am back from Belarus. Ready to try again, get it right this time. I tried to shoot his initials into the wall and I left a severed head in the fridge. How much clearer can I be of my intentions?” Sherlock said exasperated.

The discussion was cut short. John was back. And he seemed relieved to see Sherlock safe and well.

Sherlock was determined not to react with anything that resembled joy. Whatever Mycroft said, he was sure the enigmatic, aloof, unavailable... etc act would sway John eventually. It had worked so well when they had first met.


	9. People will Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flies in the ointment.

If the game was on, then John realised he was going to busy the next few days. He had better let Sarah know he wasn't going to be available for any locum work until everything was solved and Sherlock didn't need him any more. He had left hurriedly on the morning after the explosion and hadn't had time to explain anything properly.

He popped into the surgery to tell her. It was almost lunch time, so ideal for another quick getting to know you session. It was turning out to be a very slow seduction but he was sure he was almost at the point where getting off with Sarah would be an inevitability.

“Hello, you!” She said cheerfully as he opened her door. And then, as if remembering, more gravely, “Was Sherlock all right?”

“What? The explosion! Oh yes, he was fine. He's always fine! I just came to maybe ask you to have lunch, discuss a few things.”

“Sounds lovely. Will Sherlock be joining us?”

“No, he's in the middle of a case – he doesn't eat in the middle of a case, and besides...” he left the rest unsaid, but he really didn't know why she would even ask if Sherlock was going to come with them. Although, of course he had been there on the circus date. And actually the two dates after that. John wondered if maybe he hadn't been making his intentions very clear.

“Oh that's a shame. He really is tremendous fun,” Sarah beamed. Then, with a slight gasp, she added, “I hope you two aren't having problems. Is that the real reason you came round the other night?”

John made a face. “What?”

“Oh no, you poor thing. You should have said something,” Sarah frowned. “He's not having an affair is he?”

“We're not... I...” John spluttered. “Oh, never mind. I think I need to go for a walk, Sarah. I have a bit of a headache all of a sudden. Perhaps we can have lunch another time.”

John left quickly.

“Call me soon when you feel better,” Sarah called after him.

John rushed out of the surgery He stopped to take a deep breath once he got to the end of the street.

“Bloody Sherlock!” he muttered. It suddenly occurred to him that one of his recent dates hadn't involved Sarah him and Sherlock. Sarah hadn't come to the opera with them at all - and in all significant ways the night had fitted Sherlock's definition of the word 'date' almost to a T.

–

He arrived at Bart's to find Sherlock intently examining a training shoe. John had steeled himself to talk to Sherlock about everybody's assumptions on the journey between there and the surgery, but now he was here he had no idea how to broach the subject. What exactly was the issue anyway? It wasn't as if he had been doing anything to make people think he was with Sherlock, they just did. How could he talk to Sherlock about something that wasn't even happening?

Within minutes he was putting his hands in Sherlock's pockets and doing exactly what Sherlock asked him to do.

John began to see why some people might be getting the impression they were getting.

Then Sherlock was shoving the shoe at him and condescendingly praising his efforts to work out why.

The next thing out of John's mouth was going to involve the slight problem that seemed to have developed in everyone's perceptions, but Molly and her friend interrupted.

“Gay!” Sherlock said under his breath.

For a second John thought he was talking to him. He pinched his nose, ready to say something cutting in dispute but then it became all too clear Sherlock wasn't talking to him at all.

When the two ersatz lovers had left John's burst of anger at the way Sherlock had been so callous in his disregard for other people's feelings really had a lot less to do with Molly and Jim from IT than it did John's increasing frustration.

And yet he had absolutely no idea how to talk to Sherlock about it without looking like a complete idiot.

The pressure was building and it seemed everyone else was in on this. John couldn't help noticing the jealous way Sherlock's two suitors, Jim and Molly, had looked at him. Did absolutely everyone in the entire world think he and Sherlock were together - was he, Doctor John Watson, the only person who hadn't been sent a memo?

He picked up the piece of paper Jim from IT had scribbled his number on, and half expected it to say something on the other side. The unsent memo. He glanced at it and was more than a little shocked when he realised the paper did have something written there - something that eagle-eyed Sherlock hadn't noticed.

It said "Accept it."

John, eyes wide, screwed up the note and stuck it in his pocket before Sherlock could see.

It obviously didn't mean anything, must have just been something that had already been on the paper, but the universe was acting far too peculiarly for John's liking these days.

\---

Sherlock had sent him to talk to Mycroft. He had also called him his best man, and John wasn't sure what to make of that, whether it was in any way significant or if it was just Sherlock's way of getting him to do his bidding.

He had got all the information he needed about Westie – especially since it was clear Sherlock did not care if he got any information at all on the case.

“My brother went to Belarus,” Mycroft said, matter-of-factly, just as John was leaving. “Before the explosion.”

“He did, just popped over and flew back – he wasn't gone as long as I expected.”

“Just as well you didn't take up my offer of the country retreat. Imagine if Sherlock had been left alone for any length of time.”

“I think even a few hours might have been too much for him,” John said ruefully.

“Indeed. Do you intend to spend many nights at your friend Sarah's in future?” Seemingly a non-sequitur, but John couldn't help feeling there was some sort of subtext to the question – one he was almost entirely unable to fathom.

“I really don't think that's any of your business.” John bristled.

“Even now?” Mycroft said mysteriously.

“Hmm, let me see,” John pretended to think “Yes, even now!” John realised that the last bit almost sounded like an admission that there was somehow a 'now'. That something had happened that would alter Mycroft's right to interfere.

He picked up his coat and went to leave. Just as he was going his eye was caught by a picture of a very handsome woman holding a flaxen haired child, taking pride of place on Mycroft's desk. The child, probably a boy, though a very pretty one so it could have been a girl, was smiling sweetly. “Oh. You were married before were you?”Does Lestrade know? What happened?” He suddenly paused, realising it could be some sort of tragic story where Mycroft's first young wife and child were killed in a terrible accident. Maybe that was a bit tactless.

“He's seen that picture, yes. As for what happened – well that isn't my wife, John, it's my mother. The child is Sherlock.”

“I'm sorry?” John sat back down. “That little angelic blond kid is Sherlock?” He couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“Yes. My little baby brother. It's usual to have family photos on one's desk is it not? I would have a picture of G. but he doesn't really like being photographed. Did you see the shot in that newspaper a few weeks ago – he had a face like a wet weekend in Grimsby in it.”

“But he's all sweet and blond!” John said. “He's not sweet and blond.”

“Yes. He prefers gothic and mysterious, doesn't he? He dyed his hair when he was 15 and has never really let it grow back the way it was. Mummy was so disappointed in him.”

“Sherlock dyes his hair?”

Mycroft said nothing to that, but pursed his lips a little. “Are you going to go and save the day now, Doctor Watson? Hurry along.”

John, a little stunned, did just that. He decided that he might not mention the revelation to Sherlock. Maybe another time, though.  
\---

“So, he was perfectly happy to continue working with you?” Mycroft gave him a satisfied smile.

“Yes, it all seems fine. He came when I called him and hasn't even mentioned any of the things that happened. Either he's forgiven us for not telling him everything or he's decided to ignore it completely.” Lestrade had had a tough day at work and he was glad it was over, even if he hadn't managed to get away until almost midnight.

“That's certainly possible. Still as long as he stays occupied and doesn't get up to any mischief that can't be controlled!”

The weekend in the country had been good. Lestrade was relieved John hadn't taken up Mycroft's offer to join them – it would have been a massive mood killer. As it was he couldn't help wondering if John had got the wrong end of the stick about the invitation – sometimes Mycroft could give the impression he was up to something nefarious.

“Well, Sherlock should be busy for the foreseeable future anyway. Not to mention the fact that I am fairly after our little talk that he and Doctor Watson should be..." Mycroft paused and though over to John Watson's earlier visit. “Although it occurs to me that maybe I should have been more upfront with the good doctor - or even more circumspect. I had assumed Sherlock had already talked to him about certain... shall we say, issue?” Mycroft frowned.

“Em, what happened?” Lestrade sounded a little worried.

“I think perhaps I made allusions to something to which John Watson is, as yet, unaware. I would say there is a spanner in the works...."

"Well, based on the way things have been going there's been nothing but spanners," Lestrade said bemusedly.


	10. Acknowledging Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People continue to talk but now John has begun to listen.

They were in Lestrade's office when the pink phone rang again.

John looked at the back of Sherlock while he was talking to whoever it was on the other side. He licked his lips, unconsciously, and then caught himself doing so. He was beginning to feel like Pavlov's dog. He folded his arms, slightly annoyed at himself . When Sherlock asked him to do something he knew he would do it, even knowing how utterly ridiculous it was. The more he tried to puzzle it out the less he understood.

He was going to keep a tighter rein on it. It was getting hard to control whatever it was he had started to feel – and there was no point feeling it anyway. Sherlock had made it abundantly clear that very first meal at Angelo's that he was just not interested in John, at all. John himself had only been vaguely aware that he was interested in Sherlock at that point so it hadn't seemed that much of a blow then.

It was becoming less easy the more he was around Sherlock, no matter how maddening his flatmate was.

And then, by the car, at another crime scene, even Donovan was noticing it now. Everyone thought they were together.

The protest this time was less vehement.

He was almost tempted to take his jacket off and see if Sherlock had taken a leaf out of Carl Powers book and written 'property of Sherlock Holmes' all over the back of him. Though maybe he had written it himself.

Sherlock handed him the Janus business card he had found in the car. As he put it in his pocket John's fingers touched the phone number he had screwed up and forgotten about a few days before.

Maybe the note on the back was right, maybe he should just accept it. Whatever 'it' was.

–

Sherlock was in the middle of another case. He didn't need distractions. He needed to focus. He had decided to deal with the John problem when it was all over. Until then it was all fine. He was just going to play it cool and barely even acknowledge John unless he had to.

Mycroft was almost certainly wrong. Aloof, unapproachable was clearly the way to go still even if John was wilfully ignoring every clue sent his way.

That was good too, though. People liked to contradict. John was people. The more Sherlock showed how absolutely not at all interested he was in John, the more John would go out of his way to definitely, absolutely, completely prove him wrong.

\--

He caught himself doing it again when Sherlock was revealing all in the Connie Prince case. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't stop himself any more. Every time Sherlock was being brilliant.

Hands on hips John breathed in and out, counted to ten and forced himself to look away. Tried to think of something that wasn't brilliant about Sherlock.

He was callous and terrible and he didn't care at all about anything, least of all John. It was a hopeless situation. Sherlock was fantastic and this obsession he had was ridiculous. No matter what he did John knew there was no chance of reciprocation.

Sarah would know what to do, she was the next best thing to a therapist now he had stopped going to Ella. And seeing as she knew how he felt about Sherlock even though he hadn't even understood it himself, she was the absolute ideal person to go to when all the adventure was over and Sherlock had gone back to huddling up in his coat ignoring John almost entirely.

He was still waiting for a sign but now it looked as though it was never going to come.

–

The swimming pool was cold. He just had a second to acknowledge Sherlock's body pressed up to his as they plunged into the water, sinking to the bottom.

There was something in the way Sherlock looked at him when he thought he was Moriarty. Even if that wasn't the sign he was waiting for John was going to take it as one. He had just enough time to think about it, the last thought before he blacked out entirely.

–

He came to in a hospital bed. A hand was pressed in his.

“Sherlock?” he murmured.

“Shh, no. Rest,” a female voice said softly.

John's eyes flickered open. “Sarah. Oh. Where... is Sherlock OK?”

The distraught, pitying look on Sarah's face told him as much as he needed to know.


	11. Funeral for a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it too late?

Funerals were never happy occasions but this one was particularly hard for John. There hadn't been a body so he clung to the hope it was all some rouse to smoke out Moriarty, but at the wake, when Sherlock still hadn't appeared his hope started to waver.

At first he thought he knew nobody here except Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan and Mrs Hudson. And Sarah – she had insisted on coming for moral support. There were a lot of strangers there though, presumably the family and former 'associates' of Sherlock . Then John realised he recognised quite a few of the faces.

It turned out there were a lot of people in attendance who seemed to consider themselves friends. Donovan had clearly been mistaken when she said Sherlock didn't 'do friends'. Although knowing what everyone thought about his relationship with Sherlock maybe she had meant to be careful, not to get his heart torn into tiny pieces, that if he ever did become a friend that was all you would be, and not to expect more. It took on slightly less pure meanings and started to get into the realms of innuendo with the word 'do'.

Then again, nobody at the funeral thought John was just a friend. He had already had more than a dozen people come up to him and offer their condolences, in the way John doubted they usually did to people who were just flatmates of the deceased.

“How you holding up?” Donovan patted him on the shoulder. “I just wanted to say I am sorry about all the things I said. I can see how this has affected you.”

“Oh, that's... thanks,” John said quietly. He still couldn't believe Sherlock was gone.

He clung on to that thought for weeks, barely leaving 221b because he thought any moment Sherlock would come back and wonder why he wasn't there to congratulate him on his fantastic plan.

Mrs Hudson fretted about it and kept bringing him tea.

After three months he realised he couldn't pay the whole of the rent for the flat on his own.

“Oh, that's OK, dear, there's no need,” Mrs Hudson insisted. “Just pay what you can.”

After six months, hope fading, he moved out. Sarah needed a lodger and John's couldn't stand looking at Sherlock's things any longer. There was still a part of him that was sure it was all part of the game, but there was an ever growing part that realised he had to accept it and move forward.

He doubted he ever really could. All the brooding in the flat had resulted in a long dark tea-time of the soul.

He thought a lot about the fantastic, brilliant, irritating, maddening, wonderful things Sherlock did, all the things Sherlock was. John wondered whether Sherlock knew how much he was loved by so many people. How much he would be missed.

How much he was loved and missed by John.

It was too much to bear.

–

It had been almost three years. The birds still sang, the Earth still went round the sun.

John had a flourishing practice in Cavendish Place. Mycroft had come along, seven months after it had all happened, and presented him with what he called a “settlement”. John questioned why he was being given any settlement, but Mycroft insisted he take it and John was too weary to put up much resistance. He moved out of Sarah's – she had been a good friend and almost a good a landlady as Mrs Hudson, but that was all she would ever be.

He should have been happy. He was a successful doctor and had enough money to do what he wanted. He had even tried arranging a few on-line dates and almost managed to get off with a girl called Mary on one of them.

Then he started talking about Sherlock and she had ended up buying him cake and telling him that she really admired his bravery. He got a kiss, but it wasn't anything to do with passion, just sympathy.

Then, one bright, crisp, January day John decided to take a stroll in the park. The one where he had gone with Mike Stamford all that time ago, on a very similar day. He looked over to the bench where he had first heard about Sherlock Holmes, almost expecting to see Mike.

He couldn't sit on it though, it was occupied by a very bedraggled looking homeless person. John wasn't even sure if it was a woman or a man. There was a stack of damp Big Issues next to the bench but it didn't look as though they were for sale, or if they were at one time they weren't now.

After a minute he decided he wasn't going to let this stop him reminiscing, reliving that day. He might not ever have got over Sherlock and he doubted he ever would, but he still clung to the moments and memories. “Hey, can you budge up?” He said, to the person on the bench.

The person looked around and glared at him. Then the expression changed and there was an unexpectedly delighted. “Oh!”

“Oh what?” John countered, irritatedly. “Look, I will buy you a cup of tea if you let me sit on the bench. And I'll buy one of those Big Issues - even though they look as though they've all stuck together.”

The man, John was 80 per cent sure it was a man now, slowly stood up. John looked down to the ground, pursed his lips and sighed. He had thought this would be a nice easy day when he woke up that morning.

“Thanks...,” John said, before looking up. He gasped. The face smiling at him was suddenly very familiar indeed. He felt his leg buckle under him, and saw silver dots. 'That's it, I've gone completely mad at last,' he thought as he started to fall. It was something of a relief in a way.

Strong, long arms caught him before he hit the concrete. “John, are you all right?”

John looked up to see the face of his friend. He didn't know how he'd done it but Sherlock was alive. “I'm fine,” he said, smiling. “Everything's fine.” He closed his eyes.

John hadn't kissed a homeless person before, and maybe, technically, Sherlock wasn't homeless. If someone had asked him to describe such a situation in advance he probably wouldn't have said: sublime, mind-boggling brilliant or the best experience of his life bar-none.

And, also technically, this was more mouth to mouth resuscitation than a kiss. At least it was at first, In his still dazed state, John couldn't be sure this was real.

John pulled away to get another look at his friend. “I'm fine, Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked worried. “I have missed you,” he said, almost under his breath. Sherlock looked almost defeated as he sat back down on the bench.

John wondered whether he would regret this later, but he would regret it even more if he didn't do it.

Sherlock looked slightly puzzled as John reached out and touched the side of his face, but when John moved towards him and started giving him reciprocal mouth to mouth he didn't resist. This time it didn't resemble anything found in a first aid manual.

–

John hadn't even asked about the details, Sherlock was alive, everything else could wait.

Mrs Hudson let them into 221b. She had kept it exactly as it was. She didn't even seem particularly shocked to see Sherlock standing there, back from the dead.

“I expect you won't be needing the second bedroom,” she said delightedly.

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled. "No, Mrs Hudson, we most certainly will not be needing that second bedroom."

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't disappoint. I still have masses of notes on Lestrade and Mycroft's back story and there is always a chance of more on that as well as the John/Sherlock threads.


End file.
